The Truce (4 page)

I had a long talk with Esteban and expressed my doubts about the fairness of his appointment. For God's sake, I didn't expect him to quit; I know that is no longer fashionable. I simply would have liked to have heard him say he felt uncomfortable about his appointment. But he didn't. ‘It's useless, Dad. You keep living in the past.' That's what he said. ‘These days nobody gets offended if some nobody appears and overtakes them on their way up the ladder. And do you know why nobody gets offended? Because they would do the same thing if they had the opportunity. I'm sure they aren't going to look at me with anger, but with envy.'

Then I told him … Well, what does it matter what I told him?

What a disgusting wind. It was a battle to travel via Ciudadela from Colonia to the Plaza. The wind lifted a girl's skirt and a priest's cassock. Jesus, such diverse spectacles. Sometimes I think about what would have happened to me if I had become a priest. Probably nothing. I have a saying that I repeat four or five times a year: ‘There are two professions for which I am sure
I do not have the least calling: the military and the priesthood.' But I think I repeat the phrase out of habit, without the least conviction.

I arrived home with my hair dishevelled, my throat burning and my eyes full of dirt. I washed up, changed and sat down by the window to drink maté. I felt safe. And also profoundly egotistical. Sitting there, I watched men, women, old people and children, all struggling against the wind, and now also against the rain. Still, I didn't get the urge to open the door and offer them refuge in my house and a hot maté. And it's not that it didn't occur to me to do it. The idea did cross my mind, but I felt profoundly ridiculous about it and began to think about the confused look on people's faces, even in the middle of the wind and rain.

What would I be like, today, if twenty or thirty years ago I had decided to become a priest? Yes, I already know, the wind would lift my cassock and expose the trousers of a rustic and ordinary man. But, what about the rest? Would I have won or lost? I wouldn't have children (I think I would have been an honest priest, one hundred per cent chaste), an office, a work schedule, or retirement. Yes, I would have God and I would have religion. But, is it that perhaps I don't have them now? Frankly, I don't know if I believe in God. Sometimes I think that, in case He does exist, He wouldn't be upset by my doubts. In reality, the resources that he (or He?) Himself has given us (reasoning, sensibility, intuition) aren't absolutely sufficient to guarantee us of His existence or non-existence. Thanks to a hunch, I can believe in God and guess right, or not believe in God and also guess right. And then? Perhaps God has the face of a croupier and I'm just a poor fool that bets on red when black comes up, and vice versa.

Robledo is still angry with me because he had to work late this past Wednesday. Poor guy. From what Muñoz told me this morning, Robledo's girlfriend is frightfully jealous. On Wednesday he was supposed to meet her at eight, but because I had chosen him to work late, he couldn't go. He called her and explained, but it was no use. She didn't believe him and told him that she never wanted to see him again. Muñoz says that he consoled Robledo by telling him that it's always better to know about these drawbacks before getting married, but Robledo is still terribly angry. Today, I called him over and told him that I didn't know about the situation with his girlfriend. I asked him why he hadn't told me about it before, and he looked at me with sparks shooting from his eyes, and murmured: ‘You were quite aware of it. I'm sick of all your little jokes.' He sneezed, out of pure nervousness, and quickly added, with an ample gesture of disappointment: ‘That they, who are terribly crass, can tell those jokes about me, I understand. But that you, who is every bit a serious man, would encourage them, honestly disappoints me a little. I've never told you, but I had a good opinion of you.' I was feeling a bit awkward about having to defend his good opinion of me, so without a trace of irony I told him: ‘Look, believe me if you want to, and if you don't, too bad. I didn't know anything and that's the end of it. Now get to work if you don't want me to be disappointed too.'

This afternoon, as I was coming out of the California cinema, I saw the woman from the bus, the ‘elbow woman', from a distance. She was walking with a heavily built man, athletic, but
not very bright. When the man laughed, it was as if he was reflecting the unexpected variants of human imbecility. She, too, would laugh, throwing her head back and pressing herself against him affectionately. They passed in front of me and although she saw me in the middle of a burst of laughter, she didn't interrupt it. I couldn't be sure that she had recognized me. In the meantime, though, she said to the centre-forward: ‘Oh, darling,' and with a flirtatious and muscular move placed her head against his giraffe-patterned tie. Afterwards, they turned on Ejido Street. And now a big question: What does this woman have to do with the one who got undressed in record time the other afternoon?

Today I was sent to meet the ‘Jew who comes looking for work'. He comes around every two or three months and the manager doesn't know how to get rid of him. He's a tall man, freckled, about fifty years old, who speaks Spanish horribly and probably writes it even worse. In his same old speech, he always reminds us that his specialty is being able to correspond in three or four languages, write shorthand in German, and cost accounting. He extracts a badly deteriorated letter from his pocket in which the head of personnel from some institute in La Paz, Bolivia, certifies that Mr Franz Heinrich Wolff performed his job to their complete satisfaction and left of his own free will. However, the expression on the man's face is as distant as it can be from his own will or that of anyone else's. We already know all of his tics, lines of reasoning and his resigned attitude by heart. Still, he always insists on being tested. But when we put him to work using a typewriter, the letter always turns out poorly and then he responds to the few questions asked of him with a
peaceful silence. I can't imagine what he lives on. He seems clean and miserable at the same time. He seems to be inexorably convinced of his failings; he doesn't envisage the least possibility of being successful, yet he accepts the obligation of being stubborn and cares little about the numerous shattering rejections he must face. I couldn't say whether the spectacle was pathetic, repugnant or sublime, but I think I will never be able to forget the look on his face (serene? resentful?) with which he always receives the poor results of his test and the semi-reverence with which he says goodbye. Occasionally, I have seen him on the streets, walking slowly or simply observing the river of people who walk by and who perhaps might inspire him to reflect. I think he'll never be able to smile. His gaze could be that of a lunatic or a scholar, or a con-artist or someone who has suffered a great deal. But the truth is that every time I see him, I feel uncomfortable. It's as if I were partly to blame for his present condition, his misery and – worse of all – it's as if he believed I am really to blame. I know it's nonsense. I can't get him a job in my office; besides, he isn't any good.

Well then? Perhaps I know of other ways to help a fellow man. But what are they? Advice, for example? I don't even want to think about the expression with which he would accept any advice from me. So today, after I told him no for the tenth time, I felt a wave of pity come over me and felt inclined to extend my hand with a ten-peso bill. He left me with my hand outstretched, stared at me (a very complicated look, although I think the main ingredient of it was, in turn, pity) and in that disagreeable accent of ‘r's' that sound like ‘g's' said to me: ‘You don't understand.' Which is absolutely true. I don't understand and that's the end of it. I don't want to think about any of this any more.

I don't see my children very often. Especially Jaime. It's curious, because it's precisely Jaime whom I would like to see more often. Of the three, he's the only one with a sense of humour. I don't know how valid affection is in the relationship between fathers and sons, but the truth is that, among the three, Jaime is the nicest. But, in counterpart, he is also the least transparent.

I saw him today, but he didn't see me. It was an interesting experience. I was at Convención and Colonia saying goodbye to Muñoz, who had accompanied me that far. I saw him walk by on the pavement in front of me with two others, who had something disagreeable in their demeanour or their attire; I don't remember exactly which, because I was especially focused on Jaime. I don't know what he was saying to them, but they were laughing wildly. Jaime was serious, but his expression was of satisfaction, or maybe not, maybe it stemmed from his belief in his superiority, of the clear dominance which at that moment he was exerting on his friends.

Later that evening I told him: ‘I saw you near Colonia today. You were with two others.' Perhaps I was mistaken, but it looked like he was blushing. ‘A friend from the office and his cousin,' he said. ‘It looked like you were really amusing them,' I added. ‘Ugh, those two laugh at any nonsense,' Jaime replied.

Then, I think that for the first time in his life, he asked me a personal question, a question that addressed my own worries: ‘So … when do you think you'll be able to retire?' Jaime asking me about my retirement! I told him that Esteban had talked to a friend about expediting the process. But he can only do so much. And besides, before anything, I inevitably have to turn fifty. ‘And how do you feel?' Jaime asked. I laughed and limited myself to a shrug. I didn't say anything for two reasons. First, I
still don't know what I'm going to do when I retire, and second, I was moved by Jaime's sudden interest. Today was a good day.

Today we had to stay late again. This time it was our fault: we had to look for a discrepancy. And there was a big problem in choosing those who would have to stay. Poor Robledo was looking at me defiantly, but I didn't choose him; I prefer to let him think he has authority over me. Santini had a birthday party to attend, Muñoz has an ingrown toenail that has him in a bad mood, and Sierra hasn't been to work in two days. In the end, Méndez and Avellaneda stayed. At a quarter to eight, Méndez approached me very mysteriously and asked how much longer we would have to stay. I told him at least until nine o'clock. Then, acting even more mysteriously and taking every possible precaution so that Avellaneda wouldn't overhear, he told me he had a date at nine o'clock and that first he wanted to go home to shower, shave, change, etc. Still, I made him suffer a little and asked: ‘Is she pretty?' ‘She's beautiful, boss,' he replied. They well know that the only weapon that can conquer me is honesty. And they overdo it. Naturally, I gave him permission to leave.

Poor Avellaneda. Once we were alone in that enormous office, she became even more nervous than usual. When she handed me a payroll document and I saw that her hand was trembling, I asked her point-blank: ‘Is there something threatening about me? Please don't be nervous, Avellaneda.' She laughed, and from that moment she worked more calmly. Talking to her is a real problem. I always have to be midway between strictness and trustfulness. I've looked at her out of the corner of my eye three or four times and one can see she's a good
woman. She has the defined features of a loyal person. When she is a little confused with the work, her hair inevitably becomes dishevelled and she looks good like that. It was ten minutes after nine before we finally found the discrepancy. I asked her if she wanted me to accompany her home. ‘No, Mr Santomé, certainly not.' But while we were walking towards the Plaza, we talked about work. She also turned down a cup of coffee. I asked her where she lived and with whom. With her mother and father, she replied. Did she have a boyfriend? Apparently, outside the office I inspire less respect, as she answered affirmatively and in a normal tone of voice. ‘And when do we take up a collection for your wedding gift?' I asked, as is customary in these situations. ‘Oh, we've only been dating for a year,' she replied. I think that after having told me she had a boyfriend, she felt more secure and began to interpret my questions as being rooted in an almost paternal interest on my part. She summoned all of her courage to inquire whether I was married, had children, etc. She became very serious upon learning that I was a widower and I think she was struggling over whether or not to quickly change the subject or share my sense of loss twenty years later. Common sense prevailed and she went on to talk about her boyfriend. She had just told me he worked for City Hall, when her trolleybus appeared. She shook my hand and everything; good Lord.

A letter from Aníbal. He became bored in San Pablo and is returning at the end of the month. For me, that's good news. I only have a few friends and Aníbal is the closest. Or at least he's the only friend I can talk to about certain topics without feeling foolish. Someday we'll have to explore just what our
relationship is based on. He is Catholic and I'm not religious at all. He is a womanizer, and I limit myself to the essential. He is active, creative, emphatic; and I'm unimaginative and indecisive. The truth is, often, he pushes me to make a decision; and at other times, it is I who curbs him with my doubts. When my mother died – it will be fifteen years in August – I was a wreck. Only a fervent hatred of God, relatives and fellow man sustained me during that period. Every time I remember the interminable wake, I feel disgust. Those who attended were divided into two classes: those who started to cry as soon as they walked through the door, and then grasped me in a quivering embrace, and those who came out of courtesy, shook my hand with wearying regret and ten minutes later were telling dirty jokes. And then Aníbal arrived. He approached, didn't even shake my hand, and started to talk in a natural, unaffected way about me, himself, his family and even my mother. His natural manner was a kind of balm, a real consolation; I interpreted it as the finest homage that anyone could pay to my mother and me during my grief. It was merely a gesture, an almost insignificant episode, this I well understand. But it occurred during one of those moments in which the pain of loss makes one exaggeratedly receptive.